“Approximately.”
Elaine hesitated.
“Maybe a few minutes before that.”
A few minutes.
She said it like time was small simply because the number was.
The officer asked, “And after the child called her mother?”
Elaine’s face hardened.
“She had no business calling anyone after I told her to sit down.”
The silence that followed was so complete I could hear the low mechanical hiss of Lily’s nebulizer.
The neighbor with the grocery bags was still standing near the sidewalk.
She lowered them slowly to the pavement.
Elaine noticed her watching and flushed.
That seemed to bother her more than anything else had.
“Rachel,” she said, “you need to tell them this has been blown completely out of proportion.”
I stared at her.
“My daughter couldn’t breathe.”
“She could breathe.”
“She called me gasping.”
“She was upset.”
“She needed medication.”
“She needed to stop challenging adults.”
The officer stepped closer.
